


Circling

by Eledhwen



Category: Dark Is Rising Sequence - Susan Cooper
Genre: Futurefic, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-19
Updated: 2010-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-13 19:56:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eledhwen/pseuds/Eledhwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For vaudevilles, whose prompt was: “Connecting and reconnecting, a could-have-been king and his once-was-wizard and the way they interweave with the stories of Arthurian legend.” Happy Yuletide! With thanks to my betas Ambyr and St Aurafina for their criticism.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Circling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vaudevilles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaudevilles/gifts).



Long ago, amid the snows of winter, two men sat and shared a drink. Sipping warmed wine from silver goblets they spoke of battles won and lost, of deeds of bravery, of the battles yet come.

The younger of the two wore a bandage around his arm and a fresh cut beneath a blond fringe, but his eyes were bright with hope.

“Will you stay, now we've won the battle?” he asked the other.

“I have other battles to fight,” said his companion – older, his gaze piercing over a hawk-like nose. “I'll be back, when you need me.”

The young man laughed. “My lion, I will always need you! You're our lynchpin. Our lucky talisman.”

“Nay, I am merely a wanderer. A meddler, even,” said the older man. “You are who is needed, Arthur.” He drained his cup, and stood. “Farewell, until we meet again.”

They clasped hands. “Farewell, Merlin. Fair travels.”

The old man nodded, and putting up his hood strode off into the snows.

* * *

“Another round?”

“I'll have a beer,” agreed the unremarkable one of the pair sitting at a corner table. “Thanks.” He watched as his companion, pushing sunglasses up on to unruly white hair, made his way through the crowd to the bar. Somehow he had no problem getting there – perhaps it was his unconventional appearance, but the mass of people seemed to part for him. It was a matter of minutes before he returned bearing two tall foaming pints of beer.

“Cheers.”

“Cheers.” They sipped. “So did you get that job, Bran?”

The young man with the white hair shook his head. “Nope. Didn't really want it, anyway. I'm not the studious one, not like you, Will. Reckon I need a job that gives me some excitement.”

“Teaching music is often excitement enough!” said Will, laughing.

Bran shuddered. “Not for me, _diolch yn fawr_.”

“So what do you want to do?” asked Will, gazing at the head on his pint. “You can't keep on doing odd jobs for Uncle David. You might actually have to move away. To a city or something.”

“Cities! Even worse,” Bran said, horror in his tawny eyes. “Oh, I'll think of something. It'll work out. Always does.”

“You should work for a charity, or something,” Will said. “Or the National Trust.”

Bran narrowed his eyes. “What, you see me as the protector of the Welsh mountains from the marauding English hordes?”

Will shrugged. “Something like that. I bet you'd be good at it.”

“Dunno why,” said Bran. “You don't half say some odd things, sometimes, Will Stanton.”

The conversation moved on, to films and books and mutual friends, and Bran seemed to forget their earlier conversation. But Will, with the corner of his mind that was kept deep and hidden and sometimes felt like a dream, watched and, as he often did with Bran, wondered what if ...

* * *

“You're late!” exclaimed Arthur, turning as the doors opened to admit a tall cloaked figure.

“I was delayed,” said the newcomer. “There are signs that the Dark is rising, in another time and another place. I have many cares, King Arthur, and cannot be constantly at your beck and call.”

“My apologies,” Arthur said. “Of course. Will you stay and eat, Merlin? There is someone I wish you to meet.”

Merlin, throwing back his cloak and running fingers through his shock of white hair, looked keenly at Arthur. “I will. What's she called?”

Laughing, Arthur clapped him on the back. “Guinevere. She's as beautiful as her name.”

They passed through another set of doors into a smaller chamber, where a girl sat sewing. Dark hair fell over her face, but she looked up as the men entered and smiled a radiant, bright smile. “My lord!”

“My lady.” There was devotion in the king's eyes. “Guinevere, I would like you to meet my oldest counsellor and friend. This is Merlin.”

The old man bowed gravely. “My lady.”

“I've heard so much about you,” Guinevere said, standing. She was small and slight, her hand child-sized as she placed it in Merlin's. “I'm so pleased you came.”

Merlin kissed the hand. “If it makes you happy, my lady, then so am I. But I am sure Arthur exaggerated. He is wont to do so.”

“He said you're a magician,” said Guinevere, sitting down again and inviting the men to join her with a wave of her hand. “What magic can you do?”

“Naught but tricks,” said the old man. He spoke a word, and the tapers burning on the table in the centre of the room flared and went out. Another word, and they were burning again as merrily as ever.

Guinevere laughed with joy. “But that is wonderful!” she exclaimed.

Arthur perched on the edge of her chair. “Merlin's magic is in words, not deeds, my lady; his counsel has brought us through many battles.”

The doors opened again and servants came in with plates, laying the table with a generous feast. Guinevere reached up and took Arthur's hand, but her gaze was on Merlin. “So talk, my lord. Tell me tales of the world you know.”

They talked, and ate, and laughed; and that night Guinevere learned something of people and places she did not know. But Merlin learned more, about the lively girl the king had fallen in love with and her restlessness for something more, something beyond the gilded bower she was building for herself.

* * *

Coming through the door, Will stopped and stared. He recovered himself after a moment, and came forward to greet those already in the room.

“Surprised?” asked Bran, grinning broadly.

“Astonished,” Will agreed. “Have I been extremely dense for an extremely long time?”

Jane Drew, her eyes bright with laughter, shook her head. “No. I think perhaps Bran and I were the dense ones. We bumped into each other last year ...”

“When I was in London for a conference ...” put in Bran.

“And somehow it all happened from there!” Jane concluded. “I've found a job here. Moving next month. Bran said you were coming over for the weekend, and we thought we'd surprise you.”

“Consider it a success,” Will said, accepting a bottle of lager from Bran. “I'm delighted, of course I am, but utterly surprised. Do Simon and Barney know?”

“Simon does. Barney's in the middle of preparing for a show. Must not be disturbed,” said Jane, with a smile. “Bran's going to come to the show and we'll tell him then.”

Raising his drink to them, Will grinned. “Of course, you mustn't get between the artist and his work. Speaking of, how's it going, Bran?”

Bran shrugged. “Yeah. Okay. Lot of bloody walking, of course, up and down hills. Lot of talking to you _Saeson_ , closing gates, that sort of thing.”

“You love it,” said Jane, nudging him with her elbow. “Of course he does.”

“I knew he would,” Will said.

He watched them together that evening, and wondered how much of their relationship was built on hidden memory and how much on shared experiences neither knew they had shared. Somehow he thought Jane's forgotten great-uncle, his own lost mentor Merriman, would have approved.

They parted with hugs and promises to see each other again soon, at Barney's art show. Will set off to catch his train back to the Midlands town where he was teaching, and Jane and Bran went back to Bran's flat beneath the shadow of the mountains.

* * *

The baby was quietly asleep, a fuzz of white hair above pale eyelashes. Merlin rested his hand on its head for a moment, and turned back to Guinevere.

“You ask much of me, my lady.”

She brushed away tears from her eyes. “I can't ... Arthur must not know. He cannot know about Lancelot.”

“What is there to know?” Merlin took Guinevere's hands and sat her down. “Guinevere, is this boy Arthur's son?”

“Yes!” The queen met his eyes. “Yes, I am certain. But already the rumours spread and I do not know if Arthur will believe me. If he'll forgive me.”

“If I do this, you will never know,” Merlin said. “If I do this, you will never be able to return here – not to this time. Your son will grow up without his father. This must be your choice, Guinevere.”

She stood, small and proud and holding her emotions in check. “Then it is my choice. Take us where you will.”

He nodded. “Gather your things. We must leave tonight – Arthur and his men will return tomorrow.”

It was falling dark as they left, both swathed in dark cloaks. The wind and rain whipped around their faces as Merlin led Guinevere, carrying the baby, out of the palace and up into the mountains. The weather was too wild for talking, and Guinevere clutched her cloak to her tightly. On her back, the child was still quiet.

They climbed up, along steep narrow paths, halting and stumbling in the wet, until they came to a flat ledge. The rain lashed at their faces and the wind tore at their hair.

“You're sure?” said Merlin, and looking down at the far distant lights of Arthur's encampment Guinevere nodded her assent. “Very well.”

He raised his arms into the wind and spoke. Suddenly the weather quietened, and it was as though a doorway opened up in front of them. Merlin held out his hand; they stepped through the doorway.

On the other side the weather was just as bad. Guinevere brushed water from her eyes. “But we haven't moved,” she said, looking around her at the mountainside.

“We have moved centuries, but this is the same place we left,” returned Merlin. “This, my lady, is the twentieth century. There will be people here who can help you. I've done all I can.”

He bowed, and pulling his hood around his head turned and vanished into the darkness.

* * *

“Here.” Pushing Will into a chair, Bran handed him the little blue-wrapped bundle. “Don't look so terrified, it's only a baby.”

“Only a baby?” Will looked down at the squashed red face blinking out of the bundle. “Bran, he's your _son_.”

Jane, tired but glowing, said, “Our son.” The baby gurgled.

“Our son,” agreed Bran, “who'll grow up with a mam and a dad and both real and honorary uncles.”

“In that case, he also has many honorary cousins,” said Will, “seeing as I'm already an uncle to 15. At least I think it's 15. I always seem to lose count. Where are his real uncles?”

“On their way,” said Jane, “along with Mum and Dad.”

“My da's coming over this evening, with John Rowlands and your Auntie Jen,” added Bran.

“Dear lord,” Will said. “I'll clear out, then. You'll be busy entertaining all the visitors. I feel honoured to be the first here.”

Bran began arranging the flowers Will had brought in a jug. “Well,” he said, offhand, “somehow it seemed important you were here. We've come a long way, you and me, since that first holiday of yours, back when we were kids.”

“And when you came to Cornwall that time,” Jane put in. Her face clouded. “Funny how we all bumped into each other in Wales, wasn't it?”

Smoothly, Will stood up and gave her the baby back. “It's a small world,” he said. “Anyway, you two – you three – should all get some peace and quiet before the hordes descend.” He paused. “What's his name? I never asked.”

“Barney will love us,” said Jane.

“Arthur,” Bran said. “Because of that outing we did, that day, up to Carn March Arthur. I dunno. It seemed ... right.”

Will laid a gentle hand on the baby's head. “Arthur ap Bran,” he murmured. “Yes. It fits.” He bent and embraced Jane, shook hands with Bran, and went to the door. Already they were lost in each other and the baby – a baby who would grow up loved and cared for, but never knowing the truth of his own heritage.

He smiled, and pulling up the collar of his coat disappeared down the hospital corridor.


End file.
